


Honey and Butter

by Flappybirdmom



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Human, Autistic Frisk, Autistic Papyrus, Gen, Mental Health Issues, Mentions of abuse and neglect, Non-Binary Chara, Non-Binary Frisk, Non-Binary Monster Kid, Non-Binary Napstablook, Non-Verbal Frisk, Racial slurs, some strong language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-07
Updated: 2017-02-07
Packaged: 2018-09-22 16:03:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,409
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9615278
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Flappybirdmom/pseuds/Flappybirdmom
Summary: Mount Ebott High is a large place, filled with interesting people.Unfortunately for you, you are neither large, nor interesting.Still, the thought of this fresh start fills you with determination.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Howdy, readers!
> 
> To cement my entry into the fandom, i flung together an obligatory High School AU, largely consisting of some of my own headcanons. It certainly isn't my best work, but i tried. So, please...have some mercy, humans...

The sweet smell wreathes around you as you forge across the grass in newly-polished boots. You shined them yourself, of course. Nobody at the Home would deem shiny shoes worthwhile. But shoes are always best when you can see your face in them. A face you don’t have to smile at.

As you give into the temptation to bend down, to take a huge sniff of the inviting foliage, you cannot help but think of things that were said at the Home. Not by you, with your hands, but by people far taller than yourself, with louder voices. Half-faded words return to your head.

“That boy isn’t right.”

Such vague words. You know there are all manner of things that would make you Not Right, but without anyone to clarify, you cannot help but think that the thing that is Not Right about you is…well, all of you: Your skin, your hand-words, and your face that doesn’t change-not for them, at least. The way you move when others stay quite still. The small voice in your head that tells you to sniff, sniff, and sniff anything and everything you come across.

But you do know one thing. One thing that you are Right about, and they have got Wrong.

You are most definitely not a boy. If you had the words, you would tell them No. But shaking your head only makes them chuckle, and ask you ‘Well, are you a _girl_ , then?’ With new, sneering voices. No, you’re not a girl either. You’re… _you_.

But still, the Home insist you share a room with the boys. The ones who take up so much space, who strew their things into your small, safe corner, and ruin its safeness. The ones who break your prized felt-tips, tread their shoes across your softest jumpers, and the pellet-filled blanket that feels like the best kind of hug. The ones that think it’s _funny_ to topple and smash the row of tiny glass ornaments that have watched you sleep for as long as you can remember.

_You’ll show them. You know you will, some day. You’ll show them, You’ll show them. You’ll…_

You feel your hands tugging at the clipped grass.

_You must be hurting it._

No, you mustn’t do that. The grass doesn’t deserve that.

You uncurl your fist, giving the ragged tussocks an apologetic pat. You’ve made a decision, after all. You shall never be anything but merciful.

You rise from the ground, rubbing the sleeve of your jumper between your fingers. Like the rest of your clothes, it isn’t new. But something about this one, with periwinkle wool and soft stripes of magenta, feels Right.

Your feet encounter a new surface as you leave the flowers behind. A sweeping stretch of asphalt, marked with bright white tramlines to create a tennis court. You don’t see any racquets, or a net. Perhaps imaginary tennis is a popular sport here at Mount Ebott High.

A cool breeze whistles across the deserted schoolyard. The piles of molten-coloured leaves you’ve spotted by the doorway are scattered at once. As though they were waiting for you to arrive, with your battered old schoolbag from a charity shop.

You glance around, wary of being spotted by a disapproving adult. That would not be a good start to your school career. But, in a wonderful turn of events, nobody is peering from their windows to reprimand newcomers.

Before you are shaped by a new set of rules, you allow yourself to play, just this once. You truss up the leaves with your feet, feeling them crinkle beneath your boots, almost like a song. Something about this personal music incites a feeling within you, flooding your entire body with the will not to give up.

Empowered by this new burst of determination, you march up the stone steps, having no need for the handrail. Your hands barely falter on the gleaming wooden doors as you summon your strength to push them open, and take your first steps into your new school.

*

* * *

 

The scent in here is of overpowering heat, a smell that makes your nose wrinkle.

You try your hardest to ignore the buzzing of the radiators, training your ears on the echo of conversation that floods the hallway. After the endless hazy stretch of summer, you’ve almost forgotten how it feels to be back in a room full of strangers.

This time, you decide, you shall try your best. You reason that with time, and just the right strategy, you shall be able to call at least one person among this crowd your friend. Perhaps even all of them, if you navigate each encounter correctly.

But right now, the scattered pellets of countless words graze against your skin. Being assailed from all sides is making it difficult to find it in your soul to love anybody here. You promise yourself that you shall engage them when you’re ready, well-equipped.

At this point in time, you are neither of these things.

And so, you close yourself off, staring hard at the tight line of the mouth you see reflected in your boots.

Without looking up, you begin to weave through the mismatched textures sported by your peers. Some, you find, are all the more inviting at this close proximity, infused with the gentle curl of smoke from a long-forgotten fire. It takes everything within you not to reach out and stroke those fibres.

Once you are free from the technicolour forest, you allow yourself a moment of stillness, inhaling a lungful of air that’s void of others’ words or scents.

You are about to look up and inspect this far more peaceful vista, when a blur of a child collides with your fluttering body, knocking the pair of you to the tiled ground.

_You mustn’t cry. Not in front of all these strangers._

The voice in your head can be ever so persuasive. But its words are powerless to stop tears brimming in your eyes. No, you tell it forcefully, as it begins to jeer. You are not a cry baby.

Your assailant, naturally, notices the water threatening to spill onto your cheeks. “Aw, man. Dude, I’m so sorry.” They pant, as though they’re still careening down the corridor at breakneck speed.

You aren’t quite sure how you feel about this person calling you ‘dude.’ Still, you take the time to look them up and down. They seem to be about your height, with skin a few shades lighter than yours, a button nose, and light blonde hair styled into messy spikes.

“Mind helpin’ me up, dude?” They grin, showing several gaps in their smile. For the first time, you notice how both of their dark blue eyes sport purple bruises.

  _Did you do that?_

The child extends an arm, with only a stump where their hand should be. You take it, attempting a scripted smile of your own, which is slightly spoilt by the remnants of your tears.

Once the two of you are stood up, you cannot help but raise an eyebrow at their clothing of choice: Though the yellow and brown striped tank top they wear is pleasing to your eye, it, along with a pair of orange sandals would certainly not be what you would choose for a cold autumn day.

“Did I hurt you?” they peer a little too close to your face for your liking. You shake your head, determined not to lose this opportunity. “Way to mess up on the first day back, right?”

The smile you give them feels a fraction stronger.

“Anyway…” they clear their throat, starting anew. “Don’t think I’ve seen you before. You a new kid or somethin’?” 

You nod. This encounter is going a lot better than you planned. _Maybe you_ can _do this after all._

“Cool.” Your not-quite-friend-yet replies. “Feels good not to be the small fry anymore, let me tell you.” They extend their other, also hand-less arm. “People call me ‘Monster Kid.’ But just Kid‘s fine by me.” Kid pauses. “You got a name, dude?”

Already, your hands are at work, spelling with slow, deliberate movements. Your name is as simple as breathing at this point.

It takes Kid a moment to decipher, as expected. “Frisk, huh?” they nod in understanding. “Neat name, dude. And you use sign language? That’s way cool. I can’t, on account of.” Here, they direct a significant sort of look to their arms, one you can understand with ease. “Well, you know what I mean, right?”

You assure them with a nod. They smile back at you for a moment, then jump, as though hit by a sudden realisation. “Oh, darn. If you’re a new kid, you’ll be wantin’ a mentor, right?”

You’re ready with a mystified response, but before your hands are in motion, Kid already has your neck in the crook of their arm, urging you into a run as they gasp out an explanation.

“We gotta get to the auditorium, before all the good ones are gone!”

You never realised that mentors, whatever they constitute, could be categorised into Good and Bad, but hearing the feverish slap of Kid’s sandals against the ground is enough to get you to quicken your pace.

Running has never been your strongest suit. Your legs co-ordinate just fine at a gentle stroll, thank you very much. Trying to synchronise them on the glossy floor, in a hallway filled with moving obstacles seems like a bit much for your first day here.

You glance over at Kid, who looks dangerously close to tumbling over. Something tells you that they wouldn’t take the time to snivel over a skinned knee. They’re even less of a cry baby than you.

The colours on either side of you begin to blur. There are small signboards above your head, but at this speed, they’re impossible to read. At least Kid seems to know where they’re going.

A warm feeling fills your chest when you look over at them, match their blistering pace with your own uncertain strides. Yellow, you think.

Yes, this must mean that they are your friend now. Your very first friend in what could be a long, long line. It makes you want to give your hands a vigorous flap. And so, that is what you do.

Flap. Flap Flap Flap Flap-

“HALT!”

Your hands grow still. Kid skids to a stop in the middle of the hallway, regaining their balance in a windmill of flailing.

“Oh, boy…” they whisper, casting an apologetic glance at you over their shoulder.

“STATE YOUR PURPOSE HERE, FRESHMEN!” A voice booms. You aren’t certain where it’s coming from.

“’M not a freshman any more, dude.” Kid mutters. They obviously know what’s happening. You cannot say the same for yourself. In truth, it’s a little bit frightening.

“REGARDLESS!” the mystery…person?-you’re still not sure- continues. “ONLY SMALL CHILDREN WOULD SHOW SUCH LITTLE RESPECT FOR THE RULES LAID FORTH BY MR. DREEMURR! RUNNING IS NOT PERMITTED IN THE HALLS!”

“Aw, C’mon.” Kid takes a couple of intrepid steps towards a locker as you become reacquainted with the fibres of your jumper. “It’s the first day of term, dude. Cut us some slack?”

“I SHALL NOT” the voice bellows, complete with ominous echo. “BE CUTTING YOU ANYTHING! SLACK OR OTHERWISE!”

You watch as Kid creeps over to another locker, suspiciously ajar. Your hand curls into a reflexive fist, ready to protect your friend. Mystery Voice continues on, oblivious.

“IT IS MY DUTY TO MONITOR THE HALLWAYS OF THE SCHOOL, TO UPHOLD THE ROLE BESTOWED UPON ME BY MR. DREEMURR HIMSELF! PERHAPS THEN, HE SHALL DEEM ME WORTHY OF BECOMING HEAD OF THE STUDENT COUNCIL NEXT YEAR!”

“Dude.” Kid sighs, addressing the locker “You aren’t doin’ yourself any favours, jumpin’ out at people like this. C’mon, we just wanna explain.”

“WELL!” Sure enough, you spot how the unlocked door rattles in time with Mystery Voice’s words. “I AM INCLINED TO COMPLY WITH YOUR REQUEST, FRESHMAN…IF YOU WOULD PLEASE ASSIST ME IN EXTRICATING MYSELF FROM MY STATION!”

Kid rolls their eyes. You can’t help but giggle as they offer a stump to whomever lurks inside the locker. It’s almost enough to make you forget how nervous you are.

Several loud crashing sounds emanate from within, interspersed with painful-sounding thuds, and more sighing from Kid as the owner of the Mystery Voice is finally pulled free.

A lanky, olive-skinned boy of about sixteen peers down at you, his mouth stretching into a sharp grin as he dusts off his crumpled white button down and Very Important-Looking red blazer. An enormous golden badge is pinned to the pocket, with equally large letters requesting ‘VOTE ME!’

“YOU, THERE!” He points a bony finger in your direction. “I DO NOT BELIEVE I HAVE SEEN YOU BEFORE! THIS MUST MEAN YOU ARE A NEW STUDENT, YES?”

“That’s what I was tryin’ to tell you.” Kid sighs in exasperation.

Before you have the chance to respond, the tall teenager has seized hold of your wrist.

“FEAR NOT, SMALL CHILD!” he strikes a fearless pose. “I, THE GREAT PAPYRUS, SHALL HAVE MERCY UPON YOU! ON THIS OCCASION, YOU SHALL NOT REQUIRE A HALL PASS TO ACCESS THE AUDITORIUM! ALLOW ME TO ESCORT YOU TO YOUR DESTINATION!”

“But…Err…who’s gonna look after your station whilst you do that, dude?”

“SURELY, MONSTER CHILD, YOU HAVE NOT FORGOTTEN MY BROTHER?” With his free hand, Papyrus gestures to the shadow of the stacked lockers, where you can just about make out a blue-clad figure, somehow still fast asleep.

You’re almost certain he wasn’t there when you last looked.

 “SANS! WE ARE OFF TO FULFIL A MOST IMPORTANT TASK. MAKE SURE NOBODY PASSES THROUGH HERE WITHOUT PROPER DESIGNATION!”

Sans opens one blue eye. Then another. You feel his gaze linger on you for a few moments more than you’re comfortable with, before he turns his attention to his brother.

“cool. try tibia little quicker than you were last time, okay?” 

For a moment, Papyrus looks more than a little incensed. But his broad smile returns when he sees you watching. 

“COME ALONG, CHILDREN!” he enthuses, clearing a path through the rising flow of students using only his voice. “I SHALL ENSURE THAT YOU ARE NOT LATE FOR YOUR ENDEAVOURS!”

*

* * *

 

“Darn. We’re late.”

You peer up at the clock above the doors in your friend’s stead. Half past nine. Still within the hour. Good.

But you spot the scowl on Kid’s face as they glare at the still-grinning Papyrus. Something doesn’t look quite right about this picture.

You step over to where Papyrus stands, invested in rhythmically piecing together and dissembling a wooden block puzzle. He raises an enquiring eyebrow at you, but his hands do not stray from the toy.

With a smile, you put your hand to your lips, motioning in a small arc in his direction.

_Thank you._

The teenager’s face lights up. He reaches down to give you a heavy-handed pat on the head. The sensation is not unpleasant.

“SMALL CHILD! IT IS YOU WHO DESERVES THANKS, FOR WITH YOUR ASSISTANCE, I HAVE COMPLETED A VALUABLE MISSION! AND NOW YOU, AND MONSTER CHILD SHALL CONSEQUENTLY BE ABLE TO ACCOMPLISH YOURS!”

He places his puzzle in his blazer pocket, pausing to give his dazzling golden badge a thorough shine. Just as it looks as though he is going to leave, he stops.

“SMALL….” He clears his throat, correcting himself. “NO…I SHALL CALL YOU FRISK, FOR YOU ARE NOT JUST A SMALL CHILD TO ME ANY MORE. YOU ARE NOW MY FRIEND, FRISK. AND AS SUCH, YOU MAY COME TO ME IF EVER YOU NEED ASSISTANCE!” he bends down as far as he is able, attempting what you think might be a whisper. Though, it sounds rather like a speaking voice. “I’ll have you know, I am very good at puzzles. Or, if you’re feeling hungry, I could cook us some spaghetti? The Great Papyrus has many talents, as you know.”

He hasn’t quite leaned far enough back before he regains his usual volume. “IT SHALL BE A VERY COOL EXPERIENCE TO HAVE YOU AS MY FRIEND, FRISK! BUT RIGHT NOW, I MUST RETURN TO MY STATION!”

As you watch him stride away, a newly-familiar feeling envelops your body. A yellow feeling.

Another yellow name to add to the list.

You glance over at Kid, who exhales a sigh that might be of relief. With this new skill, this new determination, you have managed to make both of the friends on your list happy.

You’re hardly surprised when you catch sight of yourself in the window, wearing a smile and hands that flap.

“C’mon, dude.” Kid seems to be following your gaze. “Let’s finally get you a mentor.”

They lean into the heavy door, forcing it open with their hip. You hurry over, almost tempted to skip through after them.

Instead, you keep your flutters to yourself, composing your body into its most neutral shape.

Despite your apparent lateness, the auditorium is still overflowing with people. Students have converged into close-knit clusters, many claiming an entire row of folding seats as they re-unite with friends.

Kid gestures over to the raised stage at the front of the room, brimming with excitement. A tall, slim girl with dark skin and red hair tied into a ponytail stands beneath the spotlights, consulting a clipboard with the eye not covered by a black gauze bandage.

“Dude!” they punctuate with a low whistle. “I can’t believe Undyne’s the new head of the student council!” You watch as they crane their neck, attempting to peer over the heads of the crowd, and catch the girl’s eye. “Man…she was so great when she mentored me last year. Wouldn’t it be way cool if you got her, too?”

You glance back at the stage, taking note of Undyne’s unusually sharp teeth, and the unmistakable confidence of her stance. She certainly seems fierce enough to frighten off any would-be foes.

_But is that what you want?_

Kid nudges you eagerly towards the small queue of your peers before you can reply to the voice in your head. You notice how a lot of your fellow newcomers exude the low buzz of…something.

 _“Arrogance.”_ The voice supplies. You were hesitant to identify it as such, but…yes, it’s clear to you now.  Young as they are, your classmates-to-be are under the impression that they know exactly how their new school operates.

You can’t quite come up with a response, so instead, you watch as each person in the line before you is paired off with an older student. From this distance, it’s impossible to pick out which of the slowly dwindling selection of mentors will be yours.

Until you find yourself, quite suddenly, at the front of the queue. On your left, Undyne takes a hasty look at her list. You spot your name there. It’s the shortest of all.

From where you stand on the stage, you see how Kid has navigated the crowd, appearing what can only be described as star struck as they beam up at Undyne from the front row of seats.

“OKAY, PUNK!” the head of the student council’s gravelly voice snaps you to attention. You wonder whether she’s been teaching Papyrus a few things.  “YOU READY TO GET YOUR MENTOR OR WHAT?”

There’s no time to reply as she regards the assortment of students still waiting to be given a mentee. It has not escaped your notice how a couple of them have hidden themselves at the back in an effort not to be chosen.

Nor has it escaped Undyne’s notice, apparently. She homes in on the pair with pinpoint accuracy. “CHARA, I KNOW IT’S YOU BACK THERE! AND BRING ASRIEL OUT, TOO!”

In a flurry of argumentative voices and stomping, two figures are shunted to the front by their peers. Amidst the commotion, you look over to Kid, trying to gauge whether they deem this pair of students a good choice.

But Kid’s eyes are not on you. They’re blown wide with fear, and fixed upon one of the reluctant mentors in particular.

It doesn’t take long for you to guess which one.

The first of your new mentors stands across from you on the stage, peering at you in a way that makes you feel more than a little disconcerted.

Watching them is perhaps, one of the most peculiar experiences of your life thus far. It is as though, in this person, you are seeing yourself reflected back at you, but with several details altered just enough that it creates an uncanny feeling deep within your soul.

Their skin is lighter. So is their hair. It’s trimmed a little differently, but it frames their face in the same way yours does. Their eyes are dark, a lot like yours, but something about this pair seems…cold, even lifeless. Where your mouth presses into a neat line, theirs is stretched into a smile. This one is hollow, accentuated by rosy cheeks that appear just as false.

You break away from the gaze that penetrates your thoughts, taking note of the brown boots they wear, and the shorts of the same shade. For one frightening moment, you find yourself wondering if this stranger has raided your jumper drawer. But…no...The one they’re wearing is green, with a single cream bar across the chest. Around their neck is a small locket, shaped into a miniscule heart.

Your own neck is bare, you remind yourself.

You are not them. And they are not you.

“Nice sweater, kid.” The grin doesn’t leave their face as they speak.

You can’t bring yourself to smile back. You raise your hand close to your head, swiping to the side in a greeting filled with your own hesitancy.

“Aw.” Your mentor’s voice is not at all reassuring. “Don’t be like that. We don’t bite. Well, he doesn’t at least.” They give the collar of their neighbour’s striped shirt a rough tug, dragging its wearer into the conversation. “You can call me Chara. This weedy dweeb here is Asriel, the God of Hyperdeath.”

You feel yourself blinking at Asriel, unsure what to say. The God of Hyperdeath is a timid-looking boy, with snow white hair and skin, presently aflame with a blush that matches his ruby-coloured eyes.

“Chara, I told you not to introduce me like that.” He pouts, giving you a meek little wave all the same. “I’m not even supposed to be here. Da-er…Mr. Dreemurr wanted _you_ to do this, not me.”

“Well, I’m here, aren’t I?” Chara retorts. “Now there’s no reason for Daddy’s Precious Little Flower not to join in the fun.”

You listen to them bicker-well, listen to _Chara_ bicker-, trying to get a good reading on the pair. Asriel, you imagine, would be grateful to receive your offer of friendship, if he wasn’t so dreadfully unassertive. Chara is far more of a challenge. Already, you can deduce that their friendship criteria is near-exclusive to Asriel, for some reason that you cannot hope to understand.

“Um.” Asriel attempts, his voice barely loud enough to be heard over Chara’s complaints, combined with Undyne’s thunderous encouragement behind the three of you. “We really ought to have asked your name, shouldn’t we? That was pretty rude of us…”

“Speak for yourself.” Chara snaps. “I was just being friendly, like you suggested.” They turn back to you. “So, come on. What do they call you?”

 _They_ call you all sorts of things. Awful words that should never be repeated, mostly. It’s ever so freeing to spell out your very own name, hear it fall from the mouths of others, with no distasteful epithets attached.

“Frisk?” Asriel frowns over the letters your hands form. “Did I get that right?”

You give him a gentle nod, a sort you can’t imagine he’s received from Chara any time recently. For a moment, you see his mouth twitch into a tiny smile. In your mind, you begin to colour his name, with a felt tip that’s almost run dry.

Chara’s name remains staunchly white, scrubbing away any attempts you make to mark it. Asriel looks over to them, waiting for their face to change.

“Not bad.” They respond after several moments with a terse nod. “Not one _I’d_ chose, but still, it suits you.”

You aren’t entirely sure what they’re talking about. Judging by Asriel’s uncomfortable expression, you’re the only one.

“C’mon then.” Chara turns to the albino boy expectantly. “Where should we take ‘em first?”

“Uh…” he falters for a moment. “Maybe we should ask them what they want to see? I mean…that’s what I would do…err, if I was the one doing the mentoring.”

Chara grunts in a vague fashion, pivoting round to face you in a way that you’re sure would be quite frightening if you weren’t expecting it, the smile still plastered to their cheeks. “Where do you want to go, Frisk?”

You brush the fingers of one open palm against the knuckles of the other as you spread both hands wide in front of you, offering up a smile to your new pair of mentors, who may soon become your newest friends.

“ _Everywhere.”_

_*_

* * *

 

With Chara by your side, the hallways become far broader.

It has not escaped your notice how your fellow students shy away when they see your mentor passing by, becoming very interested in lockers and wall displays all of a sudden.

You glance over at Asriel as he jogs to keep up with Chara’s unwavering pace. He doesn’t seem to mind the lack of encounters.

Or perhaps he does, something small whispers to you. Maybe he doesn’t have the courage to broach the subject to his very best friend.

But you…you certainly do mind. A lot. White names scurry by, out of reach of your yellow pen. Opportunity after missed opportunity.

When Chara hisses snide little comments in your ear, you force laughter from your lips, because you realise that is what they want of you. Their words are coarse, apathetic. Not at all like the signs you’ve so carefully crafted not to hurt others.

It’s okay, you decide. Chara is just very outspoken about what they dislike. It is just how they are. Just as you feel stung by the sorrow of every being around you.

“HALT!”

Chara curls their lip, folding their arms as they stomp to a slouching standstill. Asriel lets out a small squeak of fright, taking refuge behind his best friend.

You’re smiling. You know that voice well.

Papyrus does not emerge from a locker this time. Instead, he has set up a small trestle table in the hallway, staffed by both him and his brother. Unobscured by shadow, Sans is a short, stocky teenager with pale skin and tufts of coal black hair emerging from his sky blue hoodie. His wide mouth is set into a grin as he surveys the hall, chin resting on his folded arms.

“hey, look, papyrus.” He jerks his head in your direction. “that’s the kid from earlier.”

“OH!” Papyrus beams as he notices you for the first time. “HOW VERY OBSERVANT OF YOU, SANS! IT IS INDEED MY SMALL FRIEND, FRISK!”

You give him a wave, trying your best to ignore Chara’s loud sigh as he returns it, breaking character for a brief moment.

It appears that Sans cannot ignore it. He fixes your mentor with a bone-chilling stare.

“careful there, bud. don’t want to have to book you on the first day back.”

Chara says nothing. Behind their back, you see them ball their hand into a fist.

“I AM SO GLAD YOU HAVE RETURNED, FRISK!” Papyrus brims with excitement. “WHAT IS IT THAT YOU REQUIRE? THE SOLUTION TO A FIENDISHLY DIFFICULT PUZZLE, PERHAPS?”

You respond with a reluctant shake of your head.

Asriel speaks up for the first time. “Err. We really just want to go down the hall, and show Frisk around.”

“AND SO YOU SHALL, FRIENDS OF FRISK! PROVIDING THAT YOU HAVE A HALL PASS!”

“A hall pass?” Asriel worries at his lip, turning to his best friend. “Oh, golly, Chara….do we have those?”

Chara rolls their eyes. “We don’t need them, dummy.” They turn to Papyrus, making no effort to return his smile. “You know who we are, right, numbskull?”

Sans isn’t slouching any more. For a moment, you’re sure you see his smile falter.

“Don’t be rude, Chara.” Asriel pleads, looking increasingly uncomfortable. He turns to the brothers. “We weren’t given any hall passes.” He whispers. “But we’ll get some soon, I promise.”

Sans takes a long, hard look at your group. “let those two through.” He indicates you and Asriel.

“WHAT?!” Chara explodes in an instant, “YOU CAN’T DO THAT, ELITIST SCUM!”

By now, a small crowd of people have gathered around Papyrus’ little station. You feel their stares as Chara conjures up more insults, stamping and shrieking abuse at everyone in the vicinity.

“UM!” Papyrus attempts to intervene. “IF FRISK AND THE YOUNG DREEMURR COULD MOVE ALONG-

“NO!” Chara roars, seizing a conflicted Asriel’s collar and dragging him backwards. “IF I CAN’T GO, HE ISN’T GOING EITHER!”

Sans has vacated the trestle table. He smirks up at Chara from his rather unimpressive height. “that’s the rules, bud.”

“TO HELL WITH YOUR RULES!” You watch as Chara aims a kick at the shorter teen. Sans sidesteps their foot with ease.

Asriel is in tears. “Please, Chara. Don’t do this now.” He begs, freeing himself from his best friend’s grip. “I’ll get us some hall passes, and then you can come and meet us, okay?”

“Fine!” they spit. “Leave me here, you useless crybaby! I didn’t want to come with you anyway!”

  “hold up, bud.” Sans puts a hand on their shoulder as Asriel passes through the station to join you. “you’re not staying here. mr. dreemurr will want to see you.”

“I’m sorry, Chara!” Asriel calls out as they’re escorted down the corridor, their razor-sharp curses ricocheting against your body. But Chara doesn’t look back. His face falls.

You give his shoulder a gentle pat, hoping that you’ll be a worthy substitute friend.

“Okay then, Frisk.” He sniffs, attempting a watery smile. “I…er…I’m probably not going to be the best mentor in the world, but…I’ll try….”

Your own smile widens. Perhaps this is your chance to get the shy boy to come out of his shell.

You point to a set of double doors at the end of the corridor. Even at this distance, the raucous sounds of contented students emanates through the wood and round portholes.

“Oh…the cafeteria?” Asriel raises an eyebrow in momentary surprise. “Well, we could get a snack or something, if you want…”

*

* * *

 

The scent in here is…complicated, blurring into a rainbow that stretches above your head. One you’re sure only you can see.

It’s rather like a mirror, you suppose. Of the people you spot as you approach the end of the room, crammed around the circular tables to enact their individual friendship routines.  A hug here, a shared screen there. And talking, some with words, but others without. You commit each step to memory as your feet carry you to where the room grows warm, and loud with the buzz of cold machinery.

You watch as students far taller than you fill their plastic trays with all manner of foods, in exchange for a handful of golden coins. The gleam of money beneath the overhead lamps gets your heart beating fast.

You have no gold to your name. Why would you, when the Home can only spare a pittance for those who deserve it?

Your plan is ruined. Your fragile little friendship with Asriel, too. There is no way he’d spend time with a child who cannot afford a meal.

You eye the cinnamon buns, begging yourself not to tremble with tears as you imagine imprinting the glossy white icing with your fingers, the warm spice cutting through sweet snow on your tongue. Your cheeks dusted with snowflakes, and a tingling fire in your satisfied stomach.

“OHO!” An ever so familiar voice exclaims from behind you. “IT IS FRISK AGAIN! BUT…THIS TIME, YOU ARE SAD? MY SMALL FRIEND, WHY IS THAT?”

You turn to Papyrus, taking note of his plate, piled high with spaghetti at ten o’clock in the morning. He is your friend already. It stands to reason that, if you are lucky, he will be able to help you.

A quiet sniffle escapes you as you indicate your empty pockets.

“WHAT IS THIS? MY OWN FRIEND IS NOT ABLE TO PAY FOR THEIR FOOD TODAY?” Were he not holding his tray, you’re almost certain he would have his hands on his hips in discontent. “THIS IS A TURN OF EVENTS THAT I, THE MOST GENEROUS PAPYRUS, SHALL NOT ALLOW!”

There is a great clattering as he rummages around in his own pockets. You can only imagine what is hidden inside.

“DID I NOT PROMISE THAT I WOULD COME TO YOUR AID IF EVER YOU NEEDED IT?” He triumphantly passes you a collection of his own coins. “AND NOW, YOU MAY USE THAT MONEY TO PURCHASE A TREAT OF YOUR CHOICE!”    

 Overcome with emotion, you fling your arms around his legs, almost dislodging the spaghetti from his tray.

“YOU ARE MOST WELCOME, FRISK!” he ruffles your hair as you free him from the hug. “HELPING OTHERS IS A COOL NEW HOBBY THAT I HAVE DECIDED TO TRY! AND THERE IS NOBODY BETTER TO HELP THAN YOU, MY SMALL FRIEND!”

As he marches away in a very important fashion, you count what must be your dozenth smile of the day.

Cinnamon bun in hand, you return to Asriel, who sits at a small table, absorbed in a biology textbook. You watch him in silence, becoming entranced yourself by the almost rhythmic twitching of his fingers, and how his hands ghost absently over his covered forearms.

“Um. Frisk?” he startles himself as much as you, glancing up from the pages with near-unreadable expression. “I really ought to apologise...”

You incline your head.

“For…well…”he gives his arm a sudden, feverish rub, not seeming entirely aware he’s doing so. “For Chara, I mean…what they said about your friend…”

You hold up a hand that you hope is reassuring, shaking your head. As much as the thought may upset you, you realised long ago that not all of your friends will get along.

Asriel closes his book with a thud. “I know it’s not a real excuse for…what you saw, but...” he lowers his small voice even further, barely audible over the rowdy conversations that float by from the tables that surround you. “They haven’t really had the best start…in anything…”

You give him a solemn nod, a glimmer of understanding alighting in you. You’ve seen a great many Bad Starts. You’ve lived one, in fact.

“So, you see…that…and just…how they are, really…well, it doesn’t make it easy for them to get along with people. But they really are trying, even if it seems like they don’t care.”

You’re not quite ready to divulge this sudden twinge of kinship you feel for Chara, the child whose life you could have had. Instead, you remain quiet as ever, beckoning Asriel onwards with your free hand.

“We…Mom, and Dad, and me…we all try our best to support them. But…well, there are still some bumps in the road, of course. But…well, you know, they can’t always help it. So…er…try not to hold it against them too much?” the smile he wears looks rueful. “They’re still my best friend, no matter what they do.”

You chew on your cinnamon bun in thought, processing his words in between the taste of magic.

“I…I probably shouldn’t have blabbed like that.” He blushes, staring down at his closed book. “They’d rather tell you the whole story themselves…Don’t let them know that you know, please?”

You tap the side of your nose, giving yourself freckles of icing sugar. Asriel laughs softly, his yellow name growing brighter by the moment.  

Quite suddenly, his giggle dies away, replaced with a vaguely worried expression directed over your shoulder.

You follow his gaze. Standing right behind you is Sans, with his smile back at full capacity.

 “hey, kid. come with me a sec?”

 With a brief, apologetic glance to Asriel, you rise from your seat once more, trotting after the older teenager as he dodges through the crowds with little effort.

Already, you’re finding Sans to be something of a puzzle, far more challenging than those his brother likes to piece together.

 He gestures for you to sit at a table close to the orange glow of the food display. Once you’re seated, with the rest of your snack stashed into your pocket for safekeeping, he slides a small portion of fries across the table to you.

You’re not quite sure how to feel about eating something sweet before this savoury course. But without any money, who knows when you’ll have the chance to sample fries like these again.

“want ketchup, kid?”

You shake your head, perfectly content to enjoy your early morning feast without upsetting its natural balance of flavours.

Sans doesn’t seem to mind: In fact, you’re sure he’s smiling wider as he shrugs in response, emptying half the bottle onto his own food.

Whilst you’re nibbling at your fries, you cannot help but wonder why this senior, with undoubtedly more friends on his list than you have on yours, has invited you to his table.

You feel him looking at you for a long while, a calculating stare that doesn’t quite match the grin on his face.

“what do you think of my brother?” his question is sudden, but you get the distinct feeling that it’s well-rehearsed.

There are lots of ways to describe Papyrus. You’re not quite sure you have as many words as you need at your disposal. All you can really say is that you like him.

And so, you sign a single word.

“ _Good.”_

“yeah.” Sans seems to be looking over your shoulder as he responds. “he’s really cool. tries hard at everything. ”

You turn in the direction he faces, and spot Papyrus sitting at a deserted table as he eats his spaghetti.

“my brother isn’t stupid.” Something dark flickers across Sans’ face as he observes the cafeteria. “he knows people talk trash about him. that’s why he wants the student council job so much. more than anything, really…”

He falls silent once more, turning his attention to you.

“all i wanted to say, kid, was…thanks for being his friend.” He gives you a smile. This one looks real. “i guess that makes you my friend, too.”

You’re colouring his name in an instant, feeling your legs jiggle beneath the table in excitement. Your list is growing evermore satisfying.

“welp, you’d better get back to the dreemurr kid, before he starts tearing his skin off.” He gives you a pat on the back as you extricate yourself from the table. “just…be careful, okay kid?”

You reply with an absent sort of nod, far more focused on your blossoming friend collection, and devouring your hard-won treat.

Something about the food here seems to replenish your soul with determination. You’re certain that nothing The Home could provide would possibly compare.

Full and content, you arrive back at your own table, where Asriel seems to have given up on gleaning any information from his textbook. You’re just in time to see the heavy double doors burst open, distracting you from your fries.

Chara storms wordlessly over to join the two of you. You narrowly avoid a close encounter with a flying satchel as it’s hurled onto the table with a thud and a snarl.

“Hi, Chara.” Asriel greets them, his voice hesitant.

Your mentor doesn’t reply, snatching up the floral print backpack at Asriel’s side and rummaging through it with no invitation.

“Oh…” the white-haired boy makes no move into intervene as books are tossed aside. “Chara, that’s my-

“C’mon, you know Mom always hides the good stuff in _your_ lunch.” Their eyes gleam as they unearth an enormous slab of chocolate. “This is _definitely_ mine.”

Asriel utters a defeated sigh, re-packing his matching school supplies as Chara takes a huge bite. “Um...so did you see Mr…Dad? Or was it just Mom, like usual?”

“Both.” They garble around several chunks at once, swiping their tongue around their mouth. “They both wanted to have a go at me for a bit, but they just ran out of steam eventually. They can’t stay mad at me for long.” They smirk, taking stock of the table for a few moments. “Aw, Frisk got fries? Where from?”

You point over to the table where Sans now sits, leaning back in his seat as his brother recounts his adventures in friendship, complete with feverish arm gestures.

Chara raises an eyebrow heavy with disapproval. “You’re sure they aren’t poisoned or anything?”

“Oh, come on, Chara. I’m sure they’re not _that_ bad.” Asriel attempts to play the mediator, failing miserably when he’s silenced by a venomous glare that vanishes in an instant.

“I’m just looking out for Frisk, is all. People just love to take advantage of the little kids, you know as well as I do.”

“You’ve just never got on with Sans.” Asriel puts in timidly. Chara swats at him with an irritable hand.

“Oh, shut it, will you? I’m being a good friend, just like all of you wanted! Maybe I won’t give you your timetables, if you don’t want me being nice.”

“Our timetables? You can’t do that!” He pleads, reaching for the badge-encrusted satchel from across the table. “I don’t want to be late for my first class!”

Chara swipes it out of his reach. “Mom gave them to me.” Their mouth stretches into a devilish grin.   “So _I’ll_ decide when you can have them.” 

 You remain still and silent for a moment, assessing the situation until you at last catch their eye.

You place your hand close to your chest, creating a clockwise motion as you incline your head in questioning.

“ _Please?”_

“Well.” Chara gives you a slow, satisfied nod. “Since you asked so nicely, Frisk.” You spy a smile on their face as they delve into their bag. A real one. “Here you are. I’ve only taken a little look-it’s not that bad. They save the truly terrible stuff for us.”

They hand you a folded piece of paper, slightly crumpled. You turn it over in your hands, noting how it feels…heavier than you expected.

“Go on!” Chara looks strangely eager for you to unfold it. Asriel, too, is wearing a wide smile. Something about this seems suspicious.

As you’re greeted by a neat grid of information, an unexpected sound rings in your ears. Metallic tinkling.

You tear your eyes away from the timetable to find a tiny, gold-backed pin sitting in front of you, shaped into a miniscule red heart.

“We want you to be our friend, Frisk.” Asriel’s blush returns as he mumbles into his sleeve. “So now we all match, sort of.” He fingers the chain jingling around his neck.

“It was my idea.” Chara blurts out, unable to hide the immense look of pride on their face.

Beaming, you fasten the badge, your own precious treasure, over the spot where a far larger heart beats. Your hands flutter in full view of your friends, so fast that you can hardly form the sign that you need.

But that doesn’t matter. From the look on their faces, they know exactly what you’re trying to say.

*

* * *

 

You’ve been spotted. You can tell from their faces.

You don’t mean to bounce your legs under your desk, or rock back and forth in your seat, or hum quiet notes to yourself as you lean over your page of equations. But you’ve found that these things are what your body defaults to when it isn’t otherwise occupied.

But the sensations you so like are perhaps not the same as what your classmates enjoy.

“Freak.” Comes a whisper, again. You’re not sure whether it’s coming from the world outside your body, or the one inside your head. That small, snide voice hasn’t spoken to you in a while. Not since Chara and Asriel accepted you into their ever so exclusive circle this morning.

Now they’re sat in lessons, in classrooms far away, and you’re left to your own devices, your own routine. Check. Watch. Listen.

The people in this room are not your friends. Their names are cold and white. Their voices stick to you with barbs, stinging your skin each time you try to move.

With the hand not curled around the gnarled old pencil you found in The Home’s art box, you finger the tiny badge pinned to your chest, and you wonder. How would your two mentors resolve the situation?  

Asriel…his lip would quiver, and his eyes would fill with tears. He’d accept the words being thrown at him with a resigned little sigh, give his arms a rub, and stare damply into his work without a word. Chara would call him a crybaby. He’d nod along, convinced that everything he’s told is true.

But Chara’s own reaction wouldn’t fare much better. They’d rise to the challenge with words of their own, shrieked at a volume nobody could hope to match. Or…maybe there would be cold smiles and dark threats. Sharp nails, probably. Sharp enough to draw blood, you think.

Neither of those options is you. You are not Asriel. You are not Chara.

You are Frisk, and you must be merciful, even when so many you have met are not. You are quiet, because that is how they like you. You watch, because without sounds, nobody knows how much you can see.

You bottle up your feelings, corking them with a face that shows only blankness as your body sloshes with bright, bright colour. Mustn’t let it spill.

One day you will release this emotion, you know. Set free a swirling swarm of butterflies. And then, your soul will be light, light enough to join their vibrant dances on the wind with your own flapping hands.

But for now, you swathe yourself in the cool stream of mathematics, filling your thoughts with sums, and your spirit with determination. You will finish this exercise, helped along by as much leg bouncing, and rocking, and humming as you need.

Your trusted yellow pen remains stowed in your mind’s pocket. You’ll save its dwindling ink for more important names.

At least, you reason with a grin, your classmates shall be spared for another day.

 

You’re sure you feel your heart swell once you’re finally released from the classroom, only to see Chara and Asriel stood right outside. They had no reason to wait for your lesson to be over, and yet…

It’s a peculiar feeling, for you to have a place. But, you’re sure that you can see yourself fitting in with this pair, who don’t quite seem to fit themselves.

“I still don’t get why _I_ wasn’t allowed to do any dissection.” Chara huffs, leaning against the radiator. “I probably know better than anyone how to do it right.”

“Well, you did have a lot of close calls with knives last year.” Asriel mutters, fingers wandering close to his forearms as he speaks. “Maybe your guidance counsellor thought it was best if you didn’t take part?”

“That woman has it in for me, I swear.” A dark look crosses their face, but clears as they spot you. “Alright, Frisk? Good maths lesson?”

You’re about to respond with a vague sort of gesture, but they cut you off.

“Just kidding, I know there’s no such thing.  ‘Specially if you’re stuck in a room full of assholes.”

“Chara, don’t say that.” Asriel chides. “But…um…well, I suppose they didn’t look very nice.”

“Listen, Frisky.” They pull you close to them. You feel their nails against your back as they grin down at you. “If anyone in there thinks it’s funny to give you grief, then you make sure to let us know, okay? Chara and the God of Hyperdeath will sort ‘em out for you.”

You glance over to Asriel. He looks deadly serious.

“ _Thank you.”_ Your sign is a smidge uncertain. You have a very clear idea of what Chara’s brand of ‘sorting out’ entails.

Still, if they are willing to help you, then that is a sure confirmation of their friendship.

You really must get yourself a new yellow pen.

Asriel slowly raises his hand. “Um, we probably shouldn’t just stand in the corridors.” He murmurs, eyeing the students spilling out from every doorway. “Should we go back to the cafeteria?”

“I don’t like that place.” Chara shakes their head, bringing that idea to a prompt end. “It’s better outside. Nobody’ll ruin our good time.”

“Isn’t it a little bit cold?” he protests. “And what if it starts raining? We’ll get all muddy, and then-

“Don’t be such a wuss. I don’t see Frisk complaining.” They turn to you quite suddenly. “You want to come outside, right Frisk?”

Over their shoulder, Asriel’s gaze is full of defeat. You are the ultimate bargaining chip. And both of you know that there must always be someone to agree with Chara.

And so, you nod, promising yourself that you will make it up to Asriel somehow.

The real smile appears once more on Chara’s face. Asriel shows no anger, only gratitude. You have spared yourself, and him, from an explosion.

Chara catches your hand in theirs, snatching up Asriel’s in the other. “You’re going to love this, Frisky. I promise.”

You’ve seen enough to guess that Chara rarely promises anything.

*

* * *

 

Asriel smells of flowers. Chara smells of flowers. Your own clothes are infused with the scent of a thousand golden blossoms, brushing against your skin.

Your body is a splayed out star amongst the dew-speckled grass. You turn your head, and there are more flowers still. You inhale the sweet breeze in a soft sigh, and a softer smile.

As you reach out to rub the buttery petals between your fingertips, your friends voices float to you from far away. Their names are bright, glowing with a yellow more radiant than any colour your worn out pen could produce.

“Don’t trample them, Chara.” Asriel warns, perched in his neat little way at the edge of the flowerbed.

But Chara picks through the blooms with utmost care, their boots hastily discarded on the grass. Their arms are spread wide as they tiptoe towards your spot.

You spot a real smile on their face as they sit down beside you, stems and buds tickling their bare legs just as they tickle yours.

“Told you you’d like it.” Chara nods down at your contentment, looking satisfied. Perhaps even a little smug.

Their hand scrabbles around in their pocket for a moment, extricating their half-eaten chocolate bar. Without a word, they snap off a tiny chunk, placing it daintily on your chest as you lie still.

“These have always been my favourites.” They murmur, plucking a single flower from the grass, twirling it between their fingers. “There are loads of these at Mom and Dad’s house. And there were some back when…well, before that, too…”

They tail off. You’re sure you catch a flash of darkness in their eyes, but it’s gone barely a moment later.

“I don’t even know why I like them so much. They’re just…always there when I’m having a good time, you know?”

You remain quiet, nibbling the chocolate as they speak.

“Want to know the best part?” They lower their voice to a conspiring whisper, gesturing over to where Asriel sits. “He did all of this.”

You incline your head.

“Yeah.” Chara confirms, raising their voice enough for Asriel to hear. “He wanted to make me have a good time, every single day.”

Asriel sighs in response, shaking his head with a good-natured smile. “You shouldn’t exaggerate. Mom and Dad did most of the work.”

“But it was your idea.” Chara argues, without a hint of anger. “Who else would have persuaded them to clutter up the lawn with a tonne of common flowers?”

You gulp down the last splinters of chocolate, signing your thanks to Chara without any hesitation.

“You don’t have to keep thanking us, Frisk.” They ruffle your hair with a smirk. “Friends just do nice things for each other, right? At least, that’s what Asriel seems to think.”

They look at you for a long while. You see their smile slipping.

“You’re from The Home, aren’t you?” the familiar coldness returns to their voice. “I could tell from your face, when I first saw you.”

It takes several moments for you to force yourself to nod in response.

“Frisk, you listen to me, right?” Chara’s hand curls around a hunk of grass. “The people there might treat you like crap, and sometimes, yeah, you might feel like crap, too. But…” they exhale a loud breath.

“You’ve got to remember that _they’re_ the crap ones, for treating you like a…a fucking _animal_ , when all you did was make a few mistakes, which turned into six years of constant _shit_. And…and you tried so damn hard to find someone who’d just _like_ you, for once. But nobody came, and nobody came, and Nobody. Fucking. Came….”

They’re shaking. So are you. Is it from anger? Tears, even? You’re not sure.

In any case, seeing Chara’s despair…It somehow fills you with determination. To reach out.

You place your hand over theirs, quell their restless clawing in the dirt. They look over at you with hollow eyes, a hollow smile.

With their attention, you point to yourself, cross your hands over your chest, then point back at them.

“Chara?” Asriel calls out, making a few hesitant moves to join you amongst the flowers. “What did they say?”

Chara doesn’t reply. Their eyes are fixed upon you, and your feverishly fluttering hands. They know exactly what you said. 

And that is all that really matters.

*

* * *

 

Your Home is huge, and full of people. You’re almost certain that should make you happy. But it does not.

You are small and skinny. Those who do spot you as you dance in and out of shadows have marked you out with a thick red pen that no amount of scrubbing will wash away.

But you know something that they do not. After all, you have been here for longer than most. And you are quite the inconspicuous child.

There are places in your Home that are off-limits to everybody. You’re thankful that your limits are ever so slightly different to the others.

One of these places lies at the bottom of the garden, guarded by brambles that ensnare a collection of rusted bicycles, and terracotta teeth embedded in the dirt, an obstacle course for half a dozen punctured footballs.

The pellets in your blanket rustle as weighted fabric shifts around your feet.  You edge around these peculiar ornaments, determined to prise open the door that lies before you.

It groans open after you give it a few well-practiced tugs. You dislodge small scales of faded blue paint from the woodwork, smiling to yourself as the tiniest fragments are scattered by your own flapping hands.

The windows may be thick with green grime, yet light still shines through as you shuffle inside to be enveloped by familiarity. The air carries the scent of soil, though there is none in sight. Several snails have alighted on the warm clay plant pot where you’ve stashed your colours. The stacked wooden milk crates in the corner house not only the precious pens, but an array of notebooks, arranged in just the right way on your makeshift desk.

Still swathed by perfect pressure, you perch on an old box that still smells faintly of apples, peering up into the rafters to observe the sprawling network of cobwebs above your head.

The spiders have been so kind to you, letting you share their space without any fuss, or demands for quiet when you simply must expel a flurry of thought and feeling with your own small notes and whistles.

You repurpose your chair for a moment, revelling in how high you are bolstered. Careful not to flail too much, you push a small piece of the leftover cinnamon bun close to a nearby web. Yes, you tell yourself with a hum of satisfaction. What a perfectly fine way to repay them.

You’re about to hop down from the box when something catches your eye. A small detail, invisible from your usual vantage point.

Inscribed on the wall closest to your desk are…words? You think that is what these scruffy, spiky markings must be. You shift the chair-come-step-stool against the wall, eager for a closer look.

Each letter stands out stark against the mottled brown timber, growing less legible with each scrawl. There is not much to decipher: only a single phrase, repeated on slat after slat in this strange, bright pen, like none you’ve ever seen before.

_IN MY WAY_

_IN MY WAY_

_IN MY WAY_

“ _But nobody came.”_ The voice inside makes its startling reappearance as you’re reaching over to touch the words. The…indentations?

You frown, pressing your finger against a letter once again. The pieces are beginning to fall into place.

The mantra on the wall wasn’t written by any pen.

And you know only one person with an affinity for such a macabre writing utensil.

 _“Christ, you’re_ slow _.”_ The voice jeers. _“No wonder they call you a-_

You end the conversation with an irritable huff, wishing it would know when to stop.

Your thoughts are transforming into a loop of _Chara, Chara, Chara._ On repeat, just like the words on the wall.  You need to find them, to talk to them, and-

“Well, hey there, Frisky-Whiskey!”

You find your fists clenching as you freeze in place, staring in horror at the door you left so foolishly ajar.

Your two roommates block your path, twice your height, and just as wide. They peer into your most special spot, casting the cramped shed in shadow.

You shift from foot to foot, relishing the extra armour your blanket provides. Their feet creak against the damp floorboards as they advance on you.

“Didn’t know we were playing hide and seek.” One remarks. You don’t like his smile. You don’t like how much space he’s filling. Your hand closes around the pin on your chest.

“This is a really good hiding spot, Frisky.” Leers the other. “But you know we always find you in the end.”

“I think we hit the jackpot this time.” Hands reach out to dislodge your carefully arranged safe spot. “You’ve got a great little setup out here. Perfect place to hide all your weird secret things.”

They snatch up one of your notebooks in a flash. The sound of crumpling paper rings in your ears. Sound bursts from your throat. 

“No!” You attempt. It comes out as nothing but a strangled grunt.

Your head fills with tittering. The voice hisses ideas in your ear.

_Go on. You should show them. You have fists for a reason, don’t you?_

But…no…You can’t do that. No matter how much it eggs you on. You are Frisk, the merciful child. There must be a way to appease them. There always is a way.

 “What’s in here, then?” One sneers, peering through pages, years of your own writing. Each and every time someone has come to visit you, to turn you down. Every chance you’ve had for someone to love you, for it to crumble into nothing.

“Looks like little Frisky’s diary.”  The other reads over his shoulder. “That many failed adoptions?” he whistles. The sound stings your ears. “Well I don’t blame them for bringing it back, once they realised it was broken.”

With a cry, you make a desperate lunge for your possessions. The few things that are yours, and only yours. Your roommates toss the books between themselves, too hopelessly high for you to reach.

Tears blur your vision. Your nails dig into your palms. Red seeps down your hands, onto your sleeves.

“You should have realised by now that nobody wants to love a redskin. Especially not a retarded redskin like you.”

You feel dark clouds seep into your head. A crackle of lightning forks through your thoughts. They’re wrong. You know they are. If only they could see how your list has grown, in just a day.

You’re determined to ignore the voice in your head, snarling for vengeance, for you to raise a hand in anger. 

Beneath your curled fingers, the metal heart pinned to your chest is warm. At once, more options are opened up to you. You do not have to fight. There is a way to spare them, and yourself. And sparing, you know, is always the best course of action.

And that is why you feel no shame as you bolt from the shed, your face wet, body shaking beneath the warm folds of your blanket.

*

* * *

 

The basement is bathed in soft yellow light. Your bare feet patter against the black stone tiles as you pace up and down to the rhythmic buzz of machinery.

For a moment, however small, you felt the rising urge to break your vow of mercy. You…you wanted to _hurt._

Walk it off. Walk all of these dark thoughts.

How could you? How could you come so close betraying everything you’ve ever known? And for the sake of an encounter that was ever so slightly more challenging than the others you’ve faced today.

_You know what they called you. They don’t deserve to be spared._

No, you argue. They _must_ be spared. Now you’ve toed the line, you must redeem yourself. You need to make amends for all the awful things you thought, all the awful things you nearly _did_ …

Your hands are still curled into fists, even now. You barely noticed.

If anyone isn’t deserving of your mercy, it is you.

You huddle up of the ground with a soft groan, hiding every inch of your nasty, dirty skin beneath your blanket.  Perhaps if you looked like everyone else, then people would find you easier to love.

There are little welts in your palms now. You feel them in the dark you’ve created, tiny crescents of blood. There have been lots of those. Especially when you’ve been bad like this.

You cannot help but wonder, if your friends were to stumble upon you looking like this, would they still like you? Even with red smears all over your hands, tugging at your hair? Right now, _you_ don’t like you. What makes you think they’d think any different?

_Chara might._

Chara. They’ve known the secrets of this place, longer even than you have. They’ve seen its rotten flesh beneath the shiny exterior. You’re not sure what first filled them with such hatred, but it doesn’t surprise you.

And if Asriel can understand Chara so well, then he might, if you are very lucky, extend that same understanding to you.

Not that you’re entirely deserving of anyone’s understanding right now.

Your nostrils quiver as a new scent enters your ever-shrinking safe spot. Aside from the soapy odour of standard issue detergent that makes your skin itch, emanating from a trio of thunderous washing machines.

Beneath it, there’s a soft coil of smoke, laced with orange warmth. You peer out from beneath the velvet sheet of dark, willing the last vestiges of stubbed out cigarettes to cling to your clothes.

 Something about smells like these, of flickering flames, and the sweet honey scent of shampoo in your hair…it reminds you.

Of things you think you may have had, sometime in the faded, forgotten past. But…more than that, it reminds you of something you desire, more than anything else in the world.

It makes you think of a home.

No…not A Home, but just… _home._  

 You hum with delight as the scent permeates your body, feeling a smile slip onto your face.

The row of washing machines spin before your damp eyes.

*

* * *

 

You never quite realised how many things you could get wrong. How many things your classmates could find to jeer at you for.  Like one long game of ‘Spot the Difference.’

The latest on that list happens to be your current clothing.

They wrinkle their noses, smirking at the grey-tinged t-shirt. The shorts that cut off past your knees. The plimsolls riddled with holes, bathing your feet in water with every shift of your body.

You tell them, with your hands, of course, that these were all you could find in the lost property box.

You don’t tell them of all the other things you discovered inside. An oversized cowboy hat. A pair of glasses, with lenses long since clouded with dust. A single glove, made from pink leather.

You _especially_ don’t tell them how you filled your bag with everything you could. How you tied the faded ribbon into a bow beneath your sleeve. How you pocketed the torn up notebook. How you slipped the tutu, and the ballet shoes into your bag, because they felt so _good_ ….

In fact, the only thing left in there once you were finished was a toy gun, missing all of its foam bullets. The plastic knife you found buried at the bottom, you claimed. Soon to be a gift for a friend.

As you’re stood at the edge of the rain-slicked running track, stifling flaps of anticipation, you spot Undyne striding around the oval of grass in the centre, clipboard still in hand as she surveys the small gaggle of students already stampeding around her.

The sound of pounding feet draws closer as seven runners breeze past you, arms and legs in seamless tandem. A fair distance away, you spot the eighth, struggling to coordinate himself in the way his peers are.

“C’MON, PAPYRUS!” Undyne roars, with no need for a megaphone. “YOU’RE DOING GREAT! KEEP IT UP!”

 Sure enough, your gangly friend dashes along, sporting a sweatband, and a t-shirt emblazoned with ‘Jog Boy.’ As he’s about to pass, you give him a wave, and a small grin.

Papyrus skids to a sudden halt in front of you, still beaming despite how he doubles over to catch his breath. Over on the grass, Undyne looks a fraction confused.

“FRISK!” the tall boy pants, forgetting all about the race as he wanders over to join you and your classmates. “I AM GLAD YOU HAVE COME TO WATCH ME TRAIN! ONCE I AM IN SHAPE, THEN IT SHALL ONLY BE A MATTER OF TIME BEFORE I AM PROMOTED TO HEAD OF THE STUDENT COUNCIL!”

You give him a thumbs-up, then pause, working your hands into some hesitant signs.

_“Your money. I still have some left. Would you like it back?”_

“PLEASE, MY FRIEND. DO NOT WORRY ABOUT RETURNING SUCH A SMALL SUM! IT WAS MY GIFT TO YOU! I, THE GREAT PAPYRUS, SHALL TELL YOU WHAT YOU MUST DO!” he bends down to speak into your ear. “What you must do is…whatever you please! You may save up the money, or spend it on something for yourself, or all of your friends! What do you think of this idea?”

You nod, feeling your soul grow lighter by a small fragment.

“WELL, THIS IS EXCELLENT NEWS!” he enthuses. “SPEAKING WITH YOU, FRISK…WHY, IT ALWAYS FILLS ME WITH DETERMINATION! NOW, I SHALL FINISH THE RACE, AND LEAVE YOU TO TALK TO ALL OF YOUR OTHER FRIENDS!” he indicates your classmates with a sweeping arm gesture. “IF YOU EVER WANT TO TRAIN ALONGSIDE ME, THEN I SHALL MOST HAPPILY ACCEPT YOUR COMPANIONSHIP!”

You watch him jog back over to the track, your face splitting into a smile.

 Your happiness fades as voices float over from the rest of the crowd.

“What a weirdo…”

“He shouldn’t be allowed to go here, scaring all the normal people like he does.”

You decide not to point out that Papyrus has attended this school far longer than any of them. Instead, you stand in silence. Waiting. Listening. Shifting your weight from foot to foot. Willing your fists not to clench. You mustn’t show your anger.

“No wonder he’s friends with little Frisky over there.” The sneer is a voice you know well from The Home. It tells you exactly when people are talking about you.

“Yeah.” A pointing finger shoots out in your direction. “ _He’s_ the weirdest of all.”

You can feel your mask cracking. Wetness wells in your eyes. You bite your lip, bottling up a sob and forcing your mouth back into indifference.

You are not a boy. You are not. Your teachers know that. Your friends know that. And these… _people_ do, too. You heard the discussions people have had about what to call you.  They thought you weren’t listening from outside the room. But you were. Of course you were.

You are a ‘they.’ And that suits you just fine. Almost everyone you’ve known has got it right. And when someone slips up, others invariably jump in to correct the mistake. Because that’s all they are. Little mistakes. Nothing to worry about.

Nobody is in a hurry to fix this. From the chorus of cackles that pierce your skull, you know with awful certainty that this was no mistake.

“ _Go on!”_ the voice snaps. “ _Don’t just stand there like a lemon. Do something!”_

But in the monochrome world, you cannot see any options. Your well-worn mercy will only make them stronger.

The urge to fight glows ever brighter from within. You spot a ragged stick in the grass, lying at your feet.

“ _Yes! Yes!”_ screams the voice, blocking out half a dozen whispered words of warning as you pick it up.

You observe the twig in your hand, tracing the knotholes with your fingers, pressing the pad of your thumb against the pointed end.

“ _A weapon.”_ The voice explains, dripping with condescension. “ _At last.”_

It sounds pleased. Proud, even. You’re certain nobody has ever been proud of you before. You’re also certain that you like this new feeling it gives you.

_But…_

You stare down at the branch, with its point filled with danger, and the power to hurt.

Hurting is something you cannot do. Something you _must_ not do. Not ever.

You snap it into two clean pieces in your hands. The voice snarls in frustration as you let them slip between your fingers.

“HEY!” Another voice, louder even than the rage-filled roaring inside your head, freezes you in place.

Undyne storms across the track, until she’s scowling down at you and your classmates. The jeering dies away at the sight of her bared teeth.

“WHAT DO YOU PUNKS THINK YOU’RE DOING?”

She’s met with silence, and several pairs of panicked eyes.

“YOU!” she jabs a finger in your direction with pinpoint accuracy. “YOU’RE COMING WITH ME, KID!”

Your classmates exchange fearful glances as the head of the student council escorts you away from their ranks. The hand she places on your shoulder is unexpectedly gentle.

You’re filled with…confusion.

What is it that you are supposed to have done? You picked up a stick, yes. But despite the voice inside, and all of its encouragement, you only considered using it for the briefest of moments.

Did Undyne see something cross your face as you held the branch in your hands? Did she recognise how you slipped up once again, and almost broke your vow of mercy?

Yes, that must have been it. And now, she’s taking you somewhere far away from your almost-victims. Most likely to be punished. Because that is what you deserve.

It is only once you’re back in the warm corridor, out of the earshot of your peers that Undyne speaks.

“DO THEY DO THAT OFTEN, HUH?” she makes a valiant effort to keep her voice down.

You pause, still not quite sure what’s going on, then give her a small nod.

Undyne’s uncovered brow furrows. She looks as though she might punch a hole through a nearby locker. As it is, she settles for grinding her sharp teeth with a noise of disgust. “THOSE BRATS…THEY’RE THE SAME EVERY YEAR!”

Is she…not upset with you? But…that makes no sense. A moment of consulting the voice in your head. It’s just as mystified as you are.

“THE LITTLE TOERAGS GAVE KID A LOT OF GRIEF LAST YEAR.” She explains, looking strangely guilt-stricken. “I HAD TO HELP THEM FEND FOR THEMSELF, BUT IT STILL FEELS LIKE IT WASN’T ENOUGH, Y’KNOW?”

You do what you’re best at. You listen in silence.

“I...I DON’T WANNA STAND BY AND HAVE THAT STUFF HAPPEN AGAIN, PUNK!” she speaks with such ferocity that it almost makes you tremble. “MR. DREEMURR GAVE ME THIS ROLE! THE LEAST I COULD DO IS USE MY POWER TO GIVE KIDS LIKE YOU SOME JUSTICE!”

She emphatically suplexes a rubbish bin. Debris rains down on several passing seniors, who shriek in disgust.

You stifle a giggle behind your hand. Undyne’s…intensity could take some getting used to, but you calculate that her heart is undoubtedly in the right place.

In other words, she’s perfect friend material.

“WELL! HERE WE ARE!” She indicates a set of wooden double doors at the end of the corridor, with benches on either side. “NOW, YOU LISTEN TO ME…FRISK!” she bends down to your level, fixing you with a yellow-tinted stare. “IF ANYONE THINKS IT’S FUNNY TO TRY AND PUT YOU DOWN LIKE THAT, YOU GOTTA SPEAK UP! STRENGTH ISN’T JUST ABOUT THROWING STUFF AROUND, RIGHT? COURAGE, CONFIDENCE…THEY’RE JUST AS IMPORTANT!”

You nod in understanding. Perhaps you really are stronger than you thought. Hearing Undyne’s impassioned speech fills you with determination.

“RIGHT!” she points to the closed doors. They’re carved with a floral pattern that your eyes find very pleasing indeed “I’LL TELL ‘EM YOU’RE OUT HERE. GET COMFY, KID: YOU MIGHT BE HERE FOR A WHILE!”

As Undyne pushes them open with her bare hands, you perch yourself on one of the benches. You’re already hard at work, colouring her name.

Yellow, to match her eye.  

Once the door closes, you busy yourself with swinging your legs back and forth, whilst massaging the fibres of your jumper with your fingers. A surge of contentment rushes through you.

You hardly mind when a peculiar new weight falls onto your shoulder, accompanied by quiet snoring.

Your first thought, naturally, is that Sans has used some sort of shortcut. But as you peer over at your neighbour, you realise that this teenager is most certainly a stranger.

Most people you meet are full of colours. So many that there seem to be none left for the sleeping youth beside you. You take in their faded grey hoodie, dull black jeans, and discoloured trainers. Even their brown skin has the same ashen tinge. From what you can see, their hair is dusty brown, with a dyed white fringe that covers their eyes.

Even in sleep, they look morose. Not like any of your friends. You feel a small twinge of sympathy for your unwitting companion.

But maybe, with words, you can make it right.

You give their shoulder a hesitant tap, noticing the headphones slung around their neck, and the wire trailing into the front pocket of their drab sweatshirt.

It takes some persistence, but eventually your patting seems to rouse them. They slowly turn their head in your direction, face colouring in an instant.

“Oh….oh _no_ ….” their voice quavers as they speak, shying away as you work your hands into a cheery greeting.  “I…I’ve probably made you late for your appointment…Oh, and you’re new, too…I’m so sorry.”

You shake your head, pointing to the closed doors. Muffled voices emanate from behind the patterned wood.

“Oh…Well, um…thanks for waking me up, I suppose.” They mutter, sounding more miserable still. “I should be in…physics, I think…but I’m really not feeling up to it right now…”

You give them a small nod, understanding at once. School can be an exhausting place. And your acquaintance hardly appears to be the healthiest of people.

“Um…I should really introduce myself, shouldn’t I?” They attempt a tremulous smile. Your own grin widens in response. “People call me Napstablook. Or…Blooky, if that’s easier for you.”

“ _It suits you.”_ You sign, offering them a thumbs-up.

“ _Oh…._ ” Napstablook’s blush returns. “Well…I’ve never really thought so, but….thank you…” They look you up and down. “You’re…Frisk, right? I’ve seen you with the Dreemurr boy, and….the other one…”

It’s peculiar to consider how many people know who you are, after so many years of being invisible. Perhaps Napstablook knows that feeling well, with their wan expression and quivering words.

Either way, you resolve to fill their name with yellow, and add it to your growing list, right where it belongs.

“By the way….um….I really am sorry for…falling asleep on you before.” They whisper, shame-faced “My cousin had a show last night, and he talked me into being his DJ... It wasn’t a very sensible idea, really…”

You find yourself becoming a smidge disconcerted with just how… _interesting_ your fellow students are turning out to be. And how utterly boring you are in comparison. “ _A show?”_ you sign, your words coloured with intrigue.

“Mm-hm.” Napstablook nods. “It…it turns out he’d rather not be inducted into the Blook Family Farm like the rest of us. But….then again, er….he isn’t really cut out for snail maintenance. He’s the head of the drama club here, actually…So…um…you might see him around…maybe…”

Their voice tails off. You give them your most attentive smile, thrilled that they’re opening up to you.

“Um…” Napstablook breaks their own silence, staring down at their fingers as another blush rises around their ears. “Speaking of music…If you want to…listen to some of mine, whilst you’re waiting…we could do that….” They gnaw their lip for a few moments. “Or….not….if you don’t want to….”

You reply with an emphatic nod before they’ve finished their sentence.

“ _Oh_.” They falter, hastily retrieving a splitter from one pocket of their jeans, and a straggly pair of earbuds from the other. “Sorry….they’re not very…good…” they murmur, passing the earbuds over to you and fishing out an MP3 player from their hoodie.

You beam all the same, watching with interest as they scroll through pages of songs you’ve never heard of before, and select one labelled ‘Spooktune.’

 As the music washes over you, you can’t help but sway in time with the slightly peculiar…trombone sounds?  It isn’t quite what you expected, and certainly not your preferred genre, but seeing Napstablook’s shy little smile as you sign your approval fills you with determination.

The spell breaks as the doors at the end of the corridor creak open. You remove the earbuds with a soft popping sound, not entirely surprised to see Chara striding back into the hallway, a look of intense satisfaction on their face.

Napstablook takes one look at your mentor, and promptly wafts away, mumbling something about snails as they leave. Their name still shines yellow, so everything is okay.

“Damn, Frisk.” Chara slides onto the bench beside you, picking dirt from beneath their nails. “What did _you_ do to get sent up here?”

You shrug, then point to them in questioning.

“The usual.” They scoff. “People don’t like the way I talk, or the way I act, so they send me to Mom and Dad to get rid of me until I’m tolerable.”

You blink at them in a slow, understanding sort of way.

“Yeah. It fucking sucks, right?” they pat your shoulder with a hard hand. “Still, I’m glad you get to meet them at last. We-I mean, Asriel wouldn’t stop blabbing about you when we got home.”

A smile crosses your face. Your hands, however, are hesitant.

“ _What are they like?”_

“You’ll find out soon enough.” Chara folds their arms in a contrary fashion, lips sealed.

“ _But…are they good?”_

It’s a few long moments before Chara responds. “…Yeah.” They concede, with a smile that looks real. “Yeah, they’re good.”

Undyne chooses that moment to emerge from behind the doors. Despite Chara’s assurance, you feel your insides freeze up.

“OKAY, PUNK!” she grins toothily at you. “THEY’RE READY TO SEE YOU NOW! REMEMBER WHAT I TOLD YOU, EH?”

You give her a tiny nod, but she doesn’t seem to see it. Instead, her eye has fallen on Chara, smirking beside you.

“YOU’D BETTER GET BACK TO CLASS, KID! YOUR TRACK RECORD’S ALREADY CRAP AS IT IS!”

“I’m not going anywhere, fishface.” Chara snaps without missing a beat. “If you have a problem with that, be sure to take it up with _Mom and Dad._ ”

“NGAHHH!!” snarls Undyne, knowing very well she’s been bested. She places her hand on your shoulder, still glaring over the top of your head. “FINE! JUST DON’T….DO ANYTHING DANGEROUS, GOT IT?”

“When do I ever?” Chara clasps their hands together, their smile growing wide.

With a snort, Undyne turns you bodily towards the towering doors, pushing them open with ease. “GOOD LUCK, KID!” she grins down at you as you slip beneath her arm, and take your first steps into the legendary Mr. Dad’s office.

You’re almost blinded by flowers, on all sides. Golden flowers, the same as the huge, sprawling carpet outside. Here, they sprout from clay pots sitting on desks, from planters that hang from the high ceiling, and from hand-painted window boxes. Through the open window, you hear…birdsong? And catch a glimpse of a hunk of blue sky.

A figure stands amongst the swaying plants, their back turned to you as they inspect one nearby with the biggest hands you’ve ever seen. This…man, you think, is broad-shouldered, dressed in a suit that fills your head with the scent of violets and lavender. His hair is the colour of glazed strawberries, centre parted from what you can see as it tumbles across his shoulders.

You take a step closer, the hazy golden scent flooding your nostrils as your boot connects with a loud thud. You were half expecting the muffled crunch of grass.

The figure is just as startled by the sound as you are. He turns, and you’re met by a magnificent mane of a beard, and a pair of kindly dark eyes.

“Hello, my child.” His voice is deep, and regal-sounding, and yet somehow still manages to be soft against your ears. “Would you like a cup of tea?”

You keep your mouth pressed into a neat little line. Still hesitant, still not entirely certain that you have not done anything wrong.

This does not deter the man- _Mr. Dreemurr_ , you remind yourself. Within a few short moments, you’re holding a china teacup that looks far too delicate for his hands. You stare down at the glittering golden threads you spot floating inside.

“That one.” He nods over at you, making a small motion for you to take the purple-accented seat across from him. “Is made from golden flowers. The same, in fact, that you see in this room.”

“ _And on the lawn.”_ You put in, once the elegant china is placed back on the desk, and both hands are unoccupied

“Quite right.” A smile blooms from beneath the headmaster’s whiskers. He eyes your unfinished drink. “I have some biscuits, if you would like? My wife makes them herself. She is quite the baking enthusiast.”

You’re not sure how to feel about all this… _kindness_ being sprung on you at once. Mr. Dreemurr has not even raised his voice to reprimand you for not speaking with words. Still, you keep your hands quiet and small as you sign.

“ _Would that be…okay?”_

“Most definitely, my child.” The smile does not leave his face as he calls across to a small annexe of his office that you haven’t noticed before. “Tori? May we please have some of your biscuits to go with our tea?”

“You have another visitor, Asgore?” another voice replies, laced with the same softness. “And you did not think to tell me?” All the same, you hear a soft clattering of china against wood from beyond a rather less ornate door.

“I thought.” Mr. Dreemurr’s voice peters out into a small, sheepish tone. “That you would be rather too busy to join us.”

“If anyone should be busy, it is you.” The mystery voice grows louder. You imagine its owner has grown closer to the door. “With the amount of paperwork you have neglected recently.”

“You are right, as ever.” The headmaster relents, holding up his hands in defeat as you giggle behind yours. “I must attend to the least exciting of my duties, child. My apologies for cutting short this meeting. But, in the meantime, I am certain that my deputy will gladly listen to your troubles. The next time we meet, I intend for us to have a proper conversation.”

With that, he files through the door, just as its previous occupant edges out into the far larger office. It does not escape your notice how the two of them pause in front of each other for a long while, engaged in a non-verbal conversation that you cannot hope to keep up with.

Mr. Asgore? Dreemurr? Dad? Closes the door behind him. You watch as his deputy/wife? sets a tray on his desk, laden with biscuits, all cut into the shape of a heart. 

Everything about her is…soft. From her downy white curls and lily-pale skin, to her cherry-red eyes, and the little crow’s feet that appear as she gives you a mild smile.

Unlike her husband, she’s dressed rather plainly, in a dark periwinkle blouse, grape purple pencil skirt, snow white tights and lilac shoes. Even with the most modest of heels, they make ever such a satisfying sound against the floor.

Like you, she has a small badge pinned to her chest. Hers takes the shape of a glossy white snail shell, one you have the most unbecoming desire to trace with your finger.

She is the most beautiful woman you’ve ever seen.

“Greetings, my child.” She sits in the chair her husband has just vacated. “I am Toriel, the deputy head of Mount Ebott High.”

 _Toriel._ You sign the letters, one by one, watching her smile grow.

“And you….you are Frisk, are you not? The child to whom my own children have become so attached.”

You nod, feeling confident enough to reach out and take one of the biscuits in front of you.

She hums softly in approval. You notice her gaze shift slightly, looking over your shoulder towards the door. You’re almost certain she is aware of Chara’s presence outside. You imagine them sprawled across the bench in the hallway, scuffing their shoes against the floor as they wait.

Once you’ve taken a sip of your still-warm tea, and nibbled the edge of your biscuit, Toriel speaks again.

“You seem to have done a remarkable thing, Frisk. Friendships do not come easily to Asriel. And to Chara…even less so… “

“ _I know.”_

And yet.” The utter warmth of her grin is like nothing you’ve ever seen. It fills you with a surge of fondness, imbued with the smoke-and-honey scents of home. “You have become a perfect fit within their little twosome. And for that, my child. I am ever so grateful.”

 You’re almost certain you’re blushing. You hide your face behind your raised teacup.

“But….are you not the same child whom your own classmates relentlessly mock?” she sips her own drink as her brow furrows for a moment. “Undyne preceded you in order to explain the situation. I must say, she was very intent on delivering her own justice. It is fortunate that we were able to convince her not to exact revenge on your behalf.”

You share an amused smile with Toriel, your mind filled with flying dustbins and punched lockers.

“And despite how eager she herself was to fight, she tells me that you never once engaged your tormentors in combat….”

“ _I have myself to practice on.”_ Your hands blurt out, before you can register quite what they’re saying.

“Yes.” She gives you a sad nod, eying up the crescent moons that decorate your palms, your wrists. Something tells you that she is no stranger to these sorts of markings.

You blink up at her, circling against your chest with a closed hand.

“You need not apologise to me, my child. To act out of mercy, even to those who shall not spare you…that is truly admirable.”

“ _That’s how things should work.”_ You reply, your movements rather more aggressive than you expect.

Toriel makes a small sound of approval. “But…when you spread around all the forgiveness, all the love in your soul, to those who do not possess any of their own ….My child, who is there to give you some in return?”

You pause for a moment in thought, stopping to drain the last dribble of tea from your cup, and wipe crumbs from your mouth.

Then, you turn back to her with a quiet gasp of realisation.

“ _Nobody.”_

You’ve never liked the sad sort of smiles. The one on Toriel’s face now is near unbearable. “And yet, I know that you shall continue to show mercy to every last person, no matter what they have done.”

“ _Why…Why is that?”_ you ask, with a small frown.

“I am certain you know by now, Frisk.” Her gaze falls on the tiny red badge on your chest. “You, my child...Right down to the very bottom of your soul… You are filled with determination.”

 You curl your fingers around your most precious gift, not caring for the indents it leaves in your hand.

“ _Thank you.”_

 ** _“_** Whatever for, my child?”

“ _For sparing me.”_ You reply, a smile flickering on your face.

Toriel responds with one of her own. “Talking has always been the best medicine. That is evident from just how many people you have looking out for you.”

You swing your legs back and forth beneath the seat, falling into comfortable silence as she stacks the empty teacups.

“You may be wondering why you spotted Chara outside just a moment ago.” She looks at you knowingly. “Since you have had such an effect on them, they sought to ask my permission to invite you to our home after the school day has ended.” She turns to you with a soft laugh. “But now, I shall simply ask you myself.”

“ _Yes.”_ You sign, without any hesitation, amending your decision only slightly to add: “ _Please.”_

Toriel nods gently as she returns the tea set to its place on the tray.

“In that case, I shall look forward to seeing you later today, my child….Though, before you leave, I must ask one more question.”

You look over to her expectantly.

“The flavour you prefer….Is it butterscotch, or is it cinnamon?”

*

* * *

 

Toriel’s car is nothing like the discoloured old minibus you’re so used to travelling in, with the seats that scratch your skin, temperamental radio, and the lingering smell of sweat and vomit.

You’re so used to sitting with your knees hitched up, hands tucked into your sleeves to protect them from the blistering cold coming from the long-since broken air conditioner that when you’re prompted to take the back seat, that is your immediate response.

Here, you are not surrounded by bag after bag of your own belongings, creaking and rattling to fill the silence you create, or a loud, buzzing voice that pleads for words to come out when you open your mouth.

Instead, you are sandwiched between friends.

You peer over at Asriel, sitting to your left, watching him feverishly scribble down notes for the biology test that looms ever closer. His brow furrows as he attempts to ignore the jostle of the car in motion.

You find yourself smiling down at the margins of his neatly ruled pages, where a soft stream of inked flowers are being blown by an invisible breeze.

You offer him your yellow pen, retrieved from the safety of your schoolbag. He accepts with a knowing little grin, filling each with warm colour as his tendrils of writing pass them by.

He glances to the other side of the car, where Chara has pressed themself against the door, plugged into a gnawed pair of earbuds that blast a song you’ve never heard of as they stare out of the rain-streaked window in silence. You regard their expression reflected in the glass, somewhere between a smirk and a scowl.

You reach over to tap their shoulder, half expecting a hiss of displeasure as they turn to you, without pausing their music.

Instead, their face splits into a wide smile as they scope out your additions to Asriel’s work. Behind the paper, you’re almost certain the albino teen is blushing.

“ _Good?”_ you incline your head, already sure of the answer.  Asriel clutches the page tighter still, worrying his lip as he awaits Chara’s response.

“Yeah.” Their voice emerges, surprisingly hoarse, as they remove their earbuds.

The car falls into silence. Chara leans forward to inspect their nails. Asriel finishes shuffling his reams of paper, snapping them at last into the bright green ring binder on his lap. You rub your woollen sleeve between your fingers, swinging your legs back and forth in tandem.

You spot Toriel’s eyes on you, reflected in the rear-view mirror. Without the rest of her face to help, you can’t quite guess her expression.

Outside, the sky has shifted to the soft blue of an ocean by night. Yellow lights drift past, slow enough for watery rays to dance across the buildings that spring up from the dark.

Chara tenses at the exact moment an involuntary sound escapes you. Even with this little light, you know exactly where you are. Their eyes dart across the back seat, filled with a wild fire that evaporates the cold mask they wear.

You’re almost certain that the car slows down as the Home appears on the horizon. Of course…Toriel is returning you to the rubbish heap, just where broken goods like you belong.

A soft sob bursts from your mouth as you fight to hold yourself together, to stop the love that surrounds you from slipping through your fingers, just as before.

 _“Nice going, idiot.”_ The voice sneers, startlingly loud. “ _She’s going back on what she said. What made you think this would be any different?”_

You know you ought to reply, but then a warm hand slips into yours. Asriel wears not a grimace, but a gentle smile as he reaches out. For the first time, you feel how his skin is pitted with shiny scars.

Your own hand brushes against Chara’s balled fist. Without looking over, they snatch it up. The three of you squeeze in unison.

Their nails are the perfect fit to the crescents in your palm. Stark white slashes peek out from beneath their sleeve.

You squeeze your eyes shut, determined to save this moment in your memories.

Just in case this is some wonderfully lucid dream.

*

* * *

“Frisk? Frisk, wake up!”

You give your eyes a sluggish rub, clearing your head of the echoes of the deep, booming voice that called out to you as you lay motionless in a never-ending field of golden flowers.

After countless ponderous nights, trying to identify its timbre, the answer comes to you at last. The words carried on the breeze were spoken in the voice of Mr. Dreemurr.

But it is not the headmaster who you discover, giving your shoulder a shake. It’s his son.

Asriel gives you one of his meek smiles as you blink back the last remnants of sleep. On your other side, Chara ceases stroking the strands of your hair that tickle their arms. They look…contented, you think.  It’s an expression you’ve never seen them wear for more than a few moments at a time.

But here, in the motionless car, their face is full of warmth as they speak to you in a whisper.

“We’re here.”

“Indeed.” Toriel smiles at the three of you from the front seat. “Though I am afraid I have not tidied up as much as I would have liked.”

“ _I don’t mind.”_ Your response is swift. Cluttered houses seem much more real in your head. There’s less chance of them disappearing forever.

Chara takes hold of your hand. “You’re not going to see any of it if we stay outside all night.” They throw their door open with ease. “Asriel, carry our bags?”

Asriel replies with a fond huff, dutifully collecting up assorted belongings. You just have time to sign a hasty thank-you to the albino boy and his mother, before you’re being tugged outside to inspect your very best friends’ home.

It certainly looks the part: The towering tree in the front garden, the blanket of leaves spread across the neat pathway, perfect for crinkling. With a smile, you spot window boxes, housing flowers that have grown ever so familiar. Tendrils of ivy climb up the purple-tinted bricks.

This house looks well-loved. And if you were to look inside, then you are sure that love is what you would find.

Chara stands beside you, arms folded as they follow your gaze. “Go on. You can be honest with _me_ , right?”

You nod without turning to face them, considering your next words carefully.

“ _It makes me feel…good. Knowing that this…lovely, perfect place is here, even though The Home is right around the corner. It’s…spreading love around to where there is none.”_

“How poetic.” Chara snorts, smiling all the same. “But…yeah, I suppose I get what you’re waxing lyrical about.”

Asriel staggers over, red in the face, and drops all three schoolbags with a resounding thud at their feet. “I don’t want to know what you’ve got in there.” He wheezes, mopping his brow.

“Thanks for not asking.” A private smirk crosses Chara’s face. You’re filled with curiosity.

  “Anyway, um…” he turns to you, still struggling to catch his breath. “Do you like it?” from the expression he wears, you’d think he was asking if you liked _him._

You’re about to nod, but Chara cuts you off. “We’ve still got to show them the inside, remember?” they turn to call over their shoulder. “Mom? We’re going to give them the whole tour before dinner.”

Toriel nods in approval as she makes her way up the path at a far more sensible pace. You’re struck by the brightness of her smile as she gathers your school supplies without complaint.

“Ready for the lightning round, Frisk?”

You give your thumbnail a hesitant chew. You’ve spent many a lightning storm bundled beneath your blanket. You’ve figured Chara’s just the sort of person who’d find them fun.

“Must we?” Asriel seems to echo your sentiments. “Perhaps we shouldn’t go so fast, and-

“Do you _want_ Dad to get first dibs on the pie when he gets home?”

“Oh…well, I suppose that changes things.”

“Pie _always_ changes things.” Chara rolls their eyes. “Let’s go, Frisk. We’ve got a lot to see.”

Within moments, they’re escorting you inside at the same blistering speed. Asriel brings up the rear, clutching his chest.

* * *

 

Toriel’s home is full of things that please you: The soft yellow walls that don’t prickle your eyes. The shiny wooden floor, where Chara and Asriel demonstrate the ancient technique of sliding in their socks. And if you’re not feeling so inclined, there’s always the assortment of rugs to run your hands across.

You’re considering all these small details as Chara leads you into the kitchen, and makes a beeline for the fridge. You hang back for a moment, inhaling the warm, impossibly sweet scent that wafts from the oven.

“Smells good, doesn’t it?” Asriel is a few steps behind you, leaning on the doorframe for some respite at last. He puffs out his chest with a pride you’ve never seen in him before. “Just wait until you taste it-Mom’s pies are the best in the whole world.”

Somehow it isn’t hard for you to believe that claim. You imagine Toriel, imbuing golden crust with love in that almost magical way of hers.

Your thoughts are interrupted by the slamming of the fridge door. Asriel flinches so subtly that you’re sure it is only you who notices. “Um…” his fingers scrabble around at his sides. “What’s the matter, Chara?”

“No chocolate.” They scowl at the humming refrigerator, as though it has done them some grave personal offense.

“Well…that’s probably a…good thing.” Asriel muses in a timid voice. “Er…in the long run, I mean. You know, because we’ll be wanting to save room for the pie.”

Chara huffs a little, aiming a kick at the stupid, worthless fridge. But when they turn, their face is bright once more.

“You’re right, Az.” they concede, much to your surprise. “Good call.”

Asriel shuffles his feet, face alight with a blush.

“Well, we may as well go back to the living room.” They suggest. Though really, you know it is not so much a suggestion as a command.  “Dad will be home soon.”

 _“If he ever finishes his paperwork.”_ You amend, grinning as your two best friends snicker in agreement.

The minutes that follow seem to come straight from a dream, a fairy story that you never once imagined you would live.

You take up a spot between Asriel and Chara on the rug, and in an instant, it is as though you have always been there. As though you have always lived in this beautiful house, with the timid albino boy on your right as a brother, and the cynical, guarded child on your left as a long-lost twin.

Mr….Dad soon returns, and the house is filled with the scent of golden flowers as he presents a bunch to his wife. Toriel scolds him for trailing mud into the house, staring in horror at his filthy dress shoes.

You giggle. Chara cackles. Asriel titters. And at once, the entire Dreemurr household is alive with laughter.

Four pairs of eyes widen as Toriel returns from the kitchen, a groaning pie dish in her hands. With reverence, you watch her divide it into five perfect pieces, serving each slice up on a floral-patterned plate.

You’re almost certain you have the largest piece. You _are_ certain that Chara notices this. But they say nothing, replacing their words with that satisfied smile that so rarely crosses their face.

With the blissful taste of butterscotch pie sparkling with magic on your tongue, you observe the room. You observe Asgore, his suit jacket now replaced with a hand-knitted jumper embroidered with the title: ‘Mr. Dad Guy.’, as he sips a steaming cup of golden flower tea.

You observe Toriel, sitting contented in her armchair as she thumbs through a book entitled _’72 Uses for Snails.’_ Firelight winks off her half-moon spectacles, and her face breaks into a sudden smile, as though she’s just remembered some private joke.

You observe Asriel, hunched over a sketchbook at your side. He nibbles the end of his pencil, making a few hesitant marks on the pristine page. Then, fretting over their placement, he erases them immediately from existence with a smile and a sigh.

You observe Chara, and how their face has grown far softer in the warmth of the house. Their dark eyes are on Asriel, watching with fascination as he discards more lines, and yet does not once think of crumpling his paper up and throwing it into the fire.

Amidst the soft slurping, the gentle flick of pages turning, the smooth scraping of pencil to paper, the scent of smoke and butterscotch pie hovers in the air around you. You watch the flames dance, breathe in the sights, the sounds, the _love._

This house has bloomed, golden, into your picture of a home.

And though it may take time, you are determined to make this home yours.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


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